


Safe House

by sofia_gigante



Series: Blade Runner and Point Man [5]
Category: Blade Runner (1982), Blade Runner (Movies), Inception (2010)
Genre: AU, Aftermath, Angst, BAMF Arthur, Blade Runner AU, Blade Runner! Eames, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pillow Talk, Resolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-24
Updated: 2016-09-24
Packaged: 2018-08-17 00:04:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8122810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sofia_gigante/pseuds/sofia_gigante
Summary: “Fuck the tea. You’re all I need to get warm.”

Arthur and Eames finally get a much-deserved moment of respite, and Eames explains the origins of his nerve problems.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written as part of the Inception Bingo challenge with the prompts discomfort during sex AND Pillow Talk...but I didn't quuuuite make the deadline on it. Ah well! 
> 
> A huge thank you to my lovely beta reader Sibilant for all of her help with this!
> 
> This is very much dependent on the previous episodes, highly recommended you [read from the beginning](http://archiveofourown.org/series/516802) so you'll understand what's happening in this fic.

They stashed the stolen police spinner in the crumbling remains of an auto garage. Eames made Arthur wait as he searched the glove box and the floor of the vehicle, looking for any evidence that would point to who these crooked cops were and why they’d been after Eames. His search pulled up nothing more than a torn page out of an old phone book with that fucking ad for his former detective practice. Goddamn Robert and his goddamn ideas.

After Eames memorized the identification number painted on the vehicle’s side, they covered it with a grease-stained tarp and then headed out into the rainy night on foot.

“The safe house is few blocks away,” Arthur said, a note of apology in his voice.

Eames pulled his sodden jacket tighter around his bare torso, trying to ignore his shivering. Hopefully, Arthur had spare clothes at his safe house. And liquor. And hot water.

The last didn’t seem very likely as they walked down the rubble-strewn street. It was hard to see in the dim light, but Eames knew that any sort of artificial illumination would only make them more visible to their hunters. Even in the dimness, Eames could see the devastation that the 2012 earthquake had wrought on Oakland. It had affected San Francisco, sure, but they had rebuilt, or at least safely demolished most of the damaged buildings. Here across the bay, though, the impoverished city hadn’t had the resources to pull itself back together, so it had been abandoned. Oh, there were still some people left, mostly scavengers, street gangs, and those unwilling or unable to leave their homes. He’d heard stories of the civilization they’d scraped together, of their underground markets, modified railway systems, community gardens irrigated with clean ground water.  He didn’t believe half of them—especially looking at the dilapidated warehouses and crumbling apartments around them. The only sounds were the spatter of rain on pavement and their own sloshing footsteps. There was no life here.

“Follow me,” Arthur said. He tugged gently on Eames’ arm, guiding him into the narrow alleyway between two buildings. Eames’ shoulders were so broad that he had to turn sideways to fit between the rain-slicked walls. After about a dozen shuffling steps, Arthur stopped and slid aside a rotting wooden pallet that hid a hole in the wall. It was barely big enough for Eames to squeeze through, and his back gave a twinge of protest as he twisted through the makeshift entrance after Arthur.

The smell hit Eames like a slap in the face—the sharp tang of artificial pine barely masking the pungent mildew that permeated the entire building.

“God,” he snorted, covering his mouth and nose with his hand.

“Still smells better than when I first moved in,” Arthur said as he replaced the pallet to cover the entrance. The space was plunged into complete darkness, and Eames was just about to pull out his lighter when the yellow beam of a torch cut through the gloom. It illuminated very little, and all Eames could make out at first was the hideous, water-stained carpet. The torchlight swung up, and Eames saw that they were in a long hallway, the wallpaper peeling between the numbered doors. A hotel or apartment building, then.

“Watch my feet, and step exactly where I do,” Arthur said.

“Got the place booby trapped, do you?” Eames asked.

“Didn’t need to. The floor is practically ready to collapse underneath us.”

“Oh. Lovely.”

Eames followed Arthur down the hallway, mirroring his slow, careful steps. It seemed like it took them even longer to traverse the 20-foot stretch of damaged floor than it had for them to fly from San Francisco to Oakland, and by the time Arthur stopped in front of door 194 Eames’ shaking had intensified. He needed to get dry, soon.

Arthur fidgeted with the knob for a second, then swung the door in. He checked it with the torch, first, before flicking on the light switch. As the small suite illuminated, Eames let out a startled gasp.

The room was almost immaculate—the gilded wallpaper still intact, the furniture clean and undamaged. The window was covered with thick, ivory curtains that matched the downy bedspread on the perfectly made bed. Most impressive, though, was the bank of computers set up on the room’s desk, with their big monitors, blinking towers, and multiple drives for 5.2” and 3.5” floppy disks. Fuck, was that a damn laser disk reader, too?

“Not what you were expecting?” Arthur asked, a note of pleasure in his voice as he escorted Eames into the room.

“How the hell did you set all this up here?” Eames asked. He stood, dumbfounded in the entryway, shivering and dripping, suddenly nervous of damaging the fluffy brown carpet.

“Oh, I didn’t set this up. It’s a network safehouse. I found it this way. It’s her doing, mostly.”

“Ariadne?” Eames guessed.

“She works in mysterious ways. She assured me that this is the most structurally sound room in the building.”

“Well, that’s not saying much in this place, is it?” Eames studied the ceiling, looking for rainwater damage or drips. There were none to be found, and the hammered copper tiles were as shiny as new pennies. He looked at the polished lamps, the flickering computer monitors. “How do you have power here?”

“A generator.” Arthur pointed to a box in the corner that Eames had assumed was a mini fridge. “It uses the building’s existing ventilation system to channel the outside wind into a series of fans to make power. No need to pull off the grid or burn fuel. We’re completely self-sufficient.”

“Is that generator hooked up to a hot water heater by any chance?” The cold was starting to cut into Eames’ bones, his shivering becoming harder and harder to hide.

Arthur’s expression morphed from one of pride to one of concern. “Jesus, I’m sorry. Of course.” He rushed towards the furthest of the suite’s three doors, and pushed it open to reveal a sparkling clean bathroom. “There’s no tub, but the shower should have hot water…” Arthur’s words trailed off as he turned back to Eames, his color draining from his face.

“What?” Eames asked, already moving towards the bathroom. His hand came up to the cuts on his face. “They look bad?”

“Get in the shower,” Arthur order, his voice grim.

“You trying to get me nake—” Eames’ joke died as he caught his reflection in the mirror. “Oh wow.”

The bright bathroom light revealed the damage the night had hidden. His skin was as pale as marble, lips a strange hue of icy blue. They made the cuts on his face stand out, and a few were still oozing bright red blood. As he shrugged off his sodden brown jacket, he saw that the skin on his torso was also clammy and pallid, his tattoos dark as bruises.

“Really, I don’t feel as bad as I look,” Eames lied. His shivering was getting worse. He could barely get his hand around the hot water knob. Goddamn fucking nerves—

Arthur reached past him and turned on the faucet, the stream of water sputtering to life. Eames stepped out of his shoes, and placed his hands on the waistband of his pants. He stopped, realizing just how close Arthur was, how his dark eyes seemed to be glued to Eames’ bare torso. A strange wave of shyness washed through him, especially when he remembered how Arthur had been looking at him in his dream---dark and feral and hungry...

“Um, you mind giving a man some privacy?” Eames asked, trying to keep his tone light. No fear of getting an erection in this state, but still.

“Sure. Yeah. Of course.” Arthur visibly shook himself, pink coloring his cheeks. He turned his face away, focusing instead on Eames’ crumpled jacket. “I’ll go hang this over the heater, make some tea.”

“You got any whiskey to put in that?” Eames asked.

“No whiskey for you until your body temperature’s back up.”

“Like fuck you’re holding out on me,” Eames protested, but he knew Arthur was right. Once Arthur’s back was turned, Eames peeled off his wet sweatpants and underwear. As he stepped into the shower the warm water stung his skin, but he forced himself to stay standing in the spray. Any second now, his shivering should stop.

Ten minutes later, he was still shaking. Not as badly as before, and he no longer felt like he had ice water in his veins, but his muscles just wouldn’t stop trembling. This had to be his nerves, then. No fucking surprise there, after the night he’d had. It wasn’t every day you got chased out of your own apartment by bloody hitman cops, taking the window route. Goddamn it, what had Eames gotten himself into by helping Arthur?

There was a quiet rap at the bathroom door, then it cracked open a few inches.

“You okay in there?” Arthur called out. “Tea’s ready.”

“Lovely,” Eames replied. He turned off the tap and pulled one of the thick, ivory towels off the rack. Fuck, was that _real_ Egyptian cotton? This place was almost as nice as Robert’s penthouse, back when he was still on Earth.

“I, um, I don’t really have anything in your size. But this should work until I can go out tomorrow.” Arthur thrust a white bathrobe through the door. Eames took it and put it on, amazed to find that it was made of the same plush fabric as his towel. He rubbed the sleeve against his cheek to enjoy the sensation—and immediately his skin began to sting. He looked down at the crimson splotches on his sleeve.

“Fuck.” Eames sighed.

“What is it?” Arthur pushed open the door, concern getting the better of graciousness.

“I bled on your robe,” Eames muttered.

Arthur came over and inspected Eames’ face, his fingertips grazing Eames’ chin. “They’re not bad. A few steri-strips should fix the worst of those. Take a seat.” He motioned towards the closed toilet. As Eames sat, Arthur opened up the medicine cabinet, which was filled with bandages, bottles, and plastic-wrapped tools.

“Ready to do surgery there, doctor?” Eames asked, watching as Arthur selected a white box off the shelf and pulled out a couple of small envelopes.

“Safe house has to be ready for anything,” Arthur said, selecting a bottle of antiseptic. “Better than trying to pull out bullets with a pair of tweezers and cauterizing the wound with an iron, don’t you think?”

“Sounds like you’re speaking from experience.” He forced himself not to wince as Arthur dabbed the ointment on his face, gritting his teeth against the sting.

“Oh, I’ve played field medic a few times.” Arthur carefully applied the steri-strips to Eames’ face. “Amazing what you can fix with a sharpened spoon, a ripped t-shirt, and some duct tape.”

Eames turned to Arthur, aghast, ready to make some cheeky comment about how Arthur needed to stay the hell away from him, when he saw the expression on Arthur’s face. He wasn’t joking. His eyes were serious, his lips pressed together in a thin line. Eames knew that expression well—he’d caught it in the mirror more times than he cared to admit. It was the look of a man remembering things best left behind—but impossible to forget.

A strange compulsion possessed Eames, the need to touch that face, to smooth away the creases on Arthur’s brow. He raised his hand slowly, not making any sudden moves. Eames’ fingers grazed Arthur’s cheek, feeling his warmth, the softness of his skin. Arthur’s gaze tracked Eames’ fingers until he covered Eames’ hand with his own and pressed it against his skin.

Eames traced the line of his cheekbone down his face, his thumb cradling Arthur’s jaw. Arthur’s eyelids fluttered closed, his hand pressing tighter on Eames’s fingers, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. Eames leaned forward, closing the distance between them. His lips had barely brushed against Arthur’s when Arthur whispered, “You’re still shaking.”

“Nerves.” Eames’ stomach knotted unexpectedly, and he went to pull his hand away from Arthur’s face. Fucking body, betraying him once again, showing his frailty. “Always get ‘em after a bad day.”

Arthur held on, though, lacing his fingers through Eames’, and pulled him up from his perch. “The cold can’t be helping. Come get in bed.”

The knot in Eames’ stomach doubled for a new reason, his pulse speeding up. He felt lightheaded as he let Arthur lead him out of the bathroom and towards the bed, and a ripple of déjà vu coursed through him. This was too much like how it had been with Robert, how he’d coddle him, make him drinks, put him to bed like a child when Eames’ nerves got the best of him—

No. Not anymore. Not with Arthur.

Eames tugged on Arthur’s hand, pulling him back towards him. Arthur turned, and barely had time to catch his balance before Eames swallowed his surprised little gasp in a hard kiss. As Eames pressed his tongue into Arthur’s mouth, Arthur’s hand came up to cradle the back of Eames’ head, pulling him closer. Eames didn’t care if he was still shaking, if there were thugs chasing them, if the entire building was going to collapse around them—he had Arthur right here, where he’d wanted him since the moment he’d laid eyes on him.

“No way I’m getting into that bed without you joining me in it,” Eames said against Arthur’s lips, nipping lightly.

“That _was_ my plan,” Arthur said, breathless and teasing all at once. “Though I thought you might want to warm up with the tea first.”

“Fuck the tea. You’re all I need to get warm.”

God, that had sounded _so_ much better in his head.

Arthur’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, his kiss-swollen lips quirking up into a playful grin. “I’d much rather you fuck me.”

Eames was done. Done with the flirting, with the playing, with the dancing around. For tonight, this moment, Arthur was all his, and Eames planned to devour him whole.

Eames peeled away the layers of Arthur’s clothes, his black turtleneck and slacks not as appealing as his sharp suit, but definitely easier to remove. Unclothed, Arthur’s physique was finally revealed, and Eames marveled at the pale planes of Arthur’s skin, the sinewy muscles, the catalog of scars and serial numbers tattooed across his flesh.

Arthur’s mouth was as busy as his hands, trailing nipping little kisses across Eames’ torso, his shoulder, until he finally pushed the bathrobe off of Eames completely. He gave a slight, shuddering sigh as he drank Eames in. A twinge of self-consciousness went through Eames at his softened musculature next to Arthur’s tight build. Back in his prime, Eames had been just as built as Arthur, even broader, stronger.

“God, you’re every bit as gorgeous as I dreamed you were,” Arthur murmured.

“Dreaming of me, were you?” Eames tried to play off the sudden flush of heat radiating from his belly, the deep amazement at the thought that his own desire was, perhaps, matched equally.  

Arthur’s lips quirked into a slightly shy smile, which was so fucking endearing considering his hand was tracing the most tantalizing little circles on Eames’ hipbone, teasing closer and closer to his cock.

“Lay down in the bed for me, will you?” Arthur asked. “Can’t keep you warm standing like this.”

Eames complied, and Arthur covered his body with his own as he pulled the covers over them both. Eames was sorry to lose the lovely show, but it was replaced by such a gorgeous symphony of sensation—the warmth of Arthur’s skin rubbing against his, the length of his hard cock nestling against Eames’, the taste of Arthur’s desperate kiss. Eames gorged himself on the feeling of Arthur—solid and strong and so very, very hot—and he clung to him, kissing him desperately as Arthur ground against him.

“I want to come,” Eames said, “God, I want to come so bad…”

Déjà vu swept through him like a wave, threatening to break him out of the gorgeous rhythm, the tiny world they’d created of sweat and sighs and sensation.

Arthur pulled his head up from where he’d had it nestled in the crook of Eames’ neck, and looked him in the eye. “Can I suck you?”

Eames almost came right there, his stomach knotting, heat racing through him in anticipation. It anchored him back to reality, away from dreams and ghosts and endless frustration, back to the here and now. Back to Arthur.

“God, please,” Eames choked out, hating how desperate he sounded.

Arthur only smiled, though, kissed Eames one more time, and dove under the covers. Eames was tempted to pull them off, to watch as Arthur wrapped those gorgeous lips of his around Eames’ aching cock, began sucking in deep, eager pulls, his tongue wrapping around the head as his hand teased the base--

Ten seconds. Eames only lasted ten seconds before his orgasm tore through him like a solar flare—blinding him to everything but the searing pleasure racing through his body. He thought he might be crying out, but he didn’t know, deaf to everything but the roar of his bloodstream in his ears. He was seeing stars, nebulas, galaxies, his body a forgotten husk as he rode the solar winds towards the bright center of eternity---

He collapsed back into the sweating, trembling, exhausted vessel of his flesh. His pulse hammered in his veins, and he gasped for breath as Arthur pulled himself up out of the covers with a very pleased smile on his face. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then leaned down to kiss Eames.

“Bloody hell,” Eames gasped, “you’re amazing.”

“And you haven’t gotten laid in far too long.” Arthur chuckled.

Eames felt his cheeks heat—no mean feat, considering his entire body felt like it’d been dipped in molten gold—and he bit his lower lip. “True. Sorry about that.”

“Don’t feel bad,” Arthur said, and revealed his own come-streaked hand. “It’s been way too long for me, too.”

Eames simultaneously felt a twinge of relief and a lance of disappointment. He’d really been looking forward to sucking Arthur off, but he was glad to not have underperformed too badly.

“The minute your cock is hard again, it’s mine,” Eames promised, and pulled Arthur down for a long, languorous kiss before letting him go to get cleaned up.

“It’s going be sooner than you think,” Arthur called from the bathroom.

“Good.” But Eames’ eyelids were already sliding closed, as heavy as lead curtains. He wanted to stay awake, it seemed rude to just roll over and pass out after an event like that. But it was God-knew-what hour of the night, and Eames had been asleep before all this madness had begun. His body was shutting down whether he wanted it to or not.

“I knocked you out, didn’t I?” Arthur slid back into the bed, his hands and face still damp from washing up. He curled up besides Eames, and Eames opened his arm to offer his side if he wanted to get closer. Arthur considered for a moment, then bridged the gap between them, resting his head on Eames’ shoulder.

“’m sorry,” Eames said through a yawn. “It’s been a long, strange night.” He looked down at Arthur, at the tangle of his dark hair, loving how the usual sharpness of his lean face had softened, relaxed. It was a side of him Eames had never seen before, and he smiled as Arthur looked up with a curious quirk of his eyebrow. “A good night, in the end, though.”

Arthur kissed his chest, smoothing down a mat of Eames’ chest hair. “Can’t promise I’ll sleep, too. I’m kind of a night owl. My biorhythm never quite got used to Earth time.”

“Mmmm, running on Martian time, are you?” Eames’ speech was slurring, sleep closing in fast. “You wake me up as soon as you’re ready for the next round, okay? I’m serious. I owe you one.”

Arthur let out a quiet little laugh, and nestled down closer to Eames. “You don’t owe me a thing, Mr. Eames. We’re more than square.”

“Tha’s good,” Eames pulled Arthur closer, marveling in just how warm, how solid he felt. How real.

“Huh,” Arthur said.

“What?”

“You’re not shaking anymore.”

“Tha’s good, too.”

“Yeah. It’s really good.”

*************

If Eames dreamed, he didn’t remember it. He slept more deeply and completely than he had in weeks, perhaps months. Perhaps ever. By the time he drifted back up to wakefulness, Arthur was fully dressed in his turtleneck and slacks, sitting at his bank of computers, nursing a steaming mug.

“You didn’t wake me up,” Eames grunted, pulling himself up into a sitting position.

“I don’t think gunshots could’ve woken you up.” Arthur didn’t sound annoyed, though, mostly amused. “Seemed rude to wake you up when you looked so happy asleep.”

“Did I now?” Eames quirked a rueful brow at Arthur.

“Smiling like a damn cat who caught the canary,” Arthur said. “It was cute.”

“Cute?” Eames scoffed. He threw off the covers and sat up, ready to show Arthur just how “cute,” he really was, when the wave of ache rippled down his body from his shoulders to his shins. He groaned in surprise. God, was he really that sore from his altercation last night? It’s not like anyone hit him. He must’ve been slamming into his furniture and the spinner harder than he realized.

“You all right?” Arthur asked.

“Peachy.” Eames sucked in his breath and forced himself to standing, ignoring Arthur’s concerned looks as he headed to the bathroom. After relieving himself and splashing himself down in the sink, he inspected the cuts on his face. Content that they were healing normally, he looked around for clothes that weren’t there. Great. He still didn’t have anything clean to wear. He padded back out into the bedroom, and tried to move normally as he collected his pajama pants and boxers from the back of the chair Arthur had hung them on to dry. They were a bit stiff, but warm. They’d do for now. Then, as dressed as he could be, he sat down on the edge of the bed, suddenly feeling awkward and out of place.

“I have something for you,” Arthur said, finally pulling himself away from his keyboard. He swiveled his chair around until he could reach behind the desk, then pulled out that garish yellow tote bag with the red panda on it. Eames laughed, until Arthur reached in and pulled out the package of socks Eames had left in there. It was missing a pair, but two remained, and Arthur tossed it at him with grin.

“See, now that was some master planning on my part,” Eames said as he took the socks. “I was so confident that we’d eventually spend the night together that I’d already begun to keep my clothes as your place.”

It was a feeble joke, and he knew it. But Arthur’s smile softened, and rolled his chair over to where Eames sat on the bed. He leaned forward and kissed Eames, just as sharply and sweetly as when they’d been nothing more than dangerous strangers, and it eased the anxiety that had been building since Eames awoke. Arthur still wanted him—wanted him here.

“Too bad you weren’t clever enough to throw in a pack of shirts, too,” Arthur said. He smoothed his hands over Eames’ chest, running his fingers through the thick chest hair. “Not that I’m minding the view at all.”

“See? Master plan. You can’t keep your hands off of me.” Eames had just dressed, but he was suspecting it was about to be a waste of time as Arthur’s hands roamed more freely across his chest and abdomen as they kissed. Eames took it as an invitation to touch Arthur in kind, slide his hands over the softness of his sweater, the sleekness of his pressed, black trousers. Something about the feeling of the crisp fabric stirred Eames’ arousal, pulling on the strange fantasies that had sparked this madness.

“I have a confession to make,” Eames said.

“Oh?” Arthur asked. “Is it that you’ve been wanting to get into my pants since the day you met me?” He was breathing heavily, his fingers tracing sparks across Eames’ sleep-sensitive skin.

“Well, yeah. That was pretty fucking obvious, wasn’t it?” Eames gave him a wolfish grin, and ran his hands down Arthur’s thighs, following the creases of his black slacks. “What I didn’t tell you was that I haven’t been able to stop thinking of you in that lovely suit of yours, all pristine and sharp.”

“Sorry to disappoint.” Arthur chuckled, throwing a rueful look down at his pants and black turtleneck. “I don’t tend to go business formal for hiding out in a safe house.”

“No disappointment at all. You’re still wearing some pretty deadly trousers.” Eames nipped Arthur’s bottom lip before dropping to his knees in front of him. He pushed back against the ache in his muscles, determined not to let anything as insignificant as a few bruises stop him from finally having what he wanted.

He pushed Arthur’s legs open and leaned into him, loving the little gasp of surprised pleasure Arthur made. He fingered Arthur’s silver belt buckle, brushing his fingers over the hard swell of Arthur’s straining cock through the thick fabric. Arthur’s hips bucked up with each little caress, and Eames traced the length, the girth, teasing himself as well as he imagined just how perfectly it was going to fit in his mouth.

“God, you’re going to make me come in my pants if you keep going like that!” Arthur’s words held a delicious edge of desperation, enough to make Eames’ cock twitch.

“Not part of my master plan,” Eames said. He finally undid Arthur’s belt and his fly, anticipation speeding his pulse. Under the fine, black fabric were a pair of regular, white cotton briefs. There was even a tiny hole in the old fabric, the deep pink flesh underneath peeking through. Something about the contrast of the nice slacks, the practically _regulation_ underwear, and the sneak peak of Arthur’s flesh drove Eames wild—peeling Arthur apart a layer at a time.

Eames peeled Arthur’s underwear away from his cock, and he moaned, low and guttural as he finally laid eyes on what he’d only fantasized about. He let himself enjoy the view, the image of Arthur’s cock so naked, so vulnerable against his fully clothed form.

Eames licked the swollen, red head of Arthur's cock, tasting the precum slicking the slit. Arthur cried out, dug his fingers into Eames’ aching shoulders so hard it hurt. He relished the pain, made it part of the moment, let it fuel his movements. He stroked Arthur’s shaft, loving its heft, its girth, his jaw already aching in anticipation as he gave it another teasing lick. Arthur bucked his hips towards Eames, nudging his cock against Eames’ lips, and he gave such a low, keening moan that Eames finally took pity on him.

He took his time swallowing him down, taking him an inch or two at a time. He wanted to memorize this moment, the absolute perfection of Arthur’s cock filling his mouth, the way it fit the curve of his tongue as if it were made to fit there. Only when Arthur’s hands were tugging at his hair, his moans punctuated with strangled cries of “please,” did Eames really suck in earnest.

Last night had taken the edge off of them both, and he gorged himself on Arthur’s cock. He swallowed him down in thick, messy pulls, not caring about the spit and precum and sweat slicking the juncture of Arthur’s lovely trousers, or how his cuts were stinging under the steri-strips.  Arthur moved in rhythm with Eames as best he could, by turns fucking Eames’ mouth and sitting back and just enjoying himself. Eames was idly stroking himself while he sucked Arthur off, the warm pleasure radiating from his flesh nearly pale in comparison to the gut-knotting joy of hearing Arthur moan, feel his cock twitch against his tongue, the deep, musky-salt taste of him that Eames could live on—

“Gonna come,” Arthur gasped. His body tensed, his grip tightened on Eames’s head. “Gonna come in your mouth--”

A lance of heat speared Eames’ core at Arthur’s words—the fuel to the slow fire that had been building inside of him. He wanted to speed up, glut himself on flesh and fluid and raw desire until pleasure blinded him, but he forced himself to keep the pace that was pleasing Arthur so. Within seconds, Arthur cried out, his hips rocking furiously up off the chair as he thrust himself furiously into Eames’ mouth. Eames tasted bitter salt, and it was the last push he needed to reach his own climax. He moaned as he sucked, his hand slickening as he joined Arthur, feeling every quiver, every thrust, every cry as if it were his own.

Arthur went limp under him, and Eames took it as his cue to stop. He tried to swallow, but the taste was becoming cloying. He saw his discarded bathrobe beside him, and picked it up to spit discreetly into it.

“That…that is the best damn blowjob I’ve ever gotten in my life,” Arthur said. He touched Eames’ cheek wonderingly, skirting his wounds. The genuine gratitude shining from his sweaty face transformed him, and he looked ten years younger, nearly boyish in his joy. It was almost too gorgeous to look at full on, like staring directly at the sun.

“Yeah? And here I thought I was out of practice.” Warmth spread through his chest, and he gave Arthur a sly smile. Arthur offered him the mug he’d been drinking out of earlier, and Eames washed Arthur’s secret taste away with a few lukewarm swigs of black tea. Then, he cleaned them both up with the bathrobe. When he was done he looked down at the sodden terrycloth, at the blood spots from the night before. “I’m sorry to say that this bathrobe is right fucked, mate.”

“These pants are, too.” Arthur peeled his stained briefs and trousers off as he stood. He took his turtleneck off, too, and looked over his shoulder at the bathroom with his wad of clothes. Eames expected him to head in to clean everything off. Instead, he dropped them on the chair behind him, and extended a hand to help Eames to his feet.

Eames was grateful for it the second he began to pull himself up. All the aches and pains his hormones had helped him ignore came screaming to the fore, and he gasped in pain as his muscles extended. Arthur caught him as he stumbled, and Eames hated himself for being so weak—fuck, he’d never, ever been this weak, this sore…was he coming down with something? Wouldn’t surprise him after his little trek in the freezing rain, but his throat wasn’t sore. Well…yes, it was. But for all the best reasons.

“You all right?” Arthur guided him to a sitting position on the bed, then climbed in after him.

“Just, just a little rattled from last night, is all.” Eames waved Arthur’s concern away as he laid his head down on the pillow.

Arthur didn’t look convinced, though, as he pulled the covers up around them.

“You don’t need to pull the whole tough-guy act with me,” Arthur said.

“But it’s been working so well for me so far.” Eames forced a coy smile.

Arthur rolled his eyes, though a small smile pulled up the corner of his mouth. “I’m just saying, if there’s something wrong, some internal damage or something, we need to get it checked out.”

Eames sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. Maybe…maybe honesty really was the best policy. He studied Arthur, the sincere concern that was so different from Robert’s coddling. Perhaps Arthur would understand, and if he didn’t, it wasn’t like things could get much worse for Eames, now could they?

“I…I have these nerve problems.” Eames said.

“What kind of problems?” Arthur propped himself up on one elbow to study Eames.

“Shakes, muscle spasms, tightness in the chest, vision blurring, headaches, seeing religious figures in food—”

“Wait, what?”

“Oh yeah. Saw the Virgin Mary in a bowl of noodles the other day.”

“You’re full of shit.”

“Yeah. I am.” Eames sighed. “Not about the rest, though. I’ve had the rest of that other stuff for years.”

“When’d it start?”

“About three years ago, no, closer to four. After Polk Street.”

Arthur didn’t say anything. He let his silence speak, fingers tracing slow circles on Eames’ shoulder, following the curving line of one of his tattoos. The soothing touch was enough to encourage Eames to go on.

“I was hurt. Wounded in the line of duty.”

“Shot?” Arthur asked, his gaze raking over Eames’ body in search of bullet wounds.

“Hit in the head with a bat by a Nexus-6.” Eames shivered, the ghost impact radiating down his spine.

“Jesus.” Arthur’s fingers tightened on Eames’ skin momentarily. He cleared his throat, and when he next spoke, his voice was raspy. “We…we um, had a skin-job unit during the battle of Tanhauser Gate. I’ve seen what they can do. It’s…” He shuddered. “You’re lucky to be alive.”

Eames snorted lightly. “Didn’t feel so lucky after spending three months in the hospital. There were surgeries, I was told. I don’t know. I was out cold for a month.” Guilt knotted in his belly. “I shouldn’t say that. Yeah. I was lucky. Dom…Dom wasn’t.”

“Dom. Dominic Cobb,” Arthur said slowly. “That fake name you used.”

Eames nodded. He wanted a smoke, badly, but he also couldn’t bear to tear himself away from Arthur, from this vault of horrors he was opening at last. He hadn’t told anyone about this for years. Even Robert hadn’t wanted to talk about it, insisting Eames talk to a professional instead to help with the “trauma.” After one session Eames had walked out, determined to simply push everything down, deal with it as best he could on his own. It felt strangely good to open up, finally.

“Dom was my partner on the force for two years. One of the best blade runners ever.” _And my best friend._ “Between the two of us we detected and retired every skin job that set foot in the city—combat models, heavies, racers. Mal took us both out in two minutes.”

“Shit.” Arthur was silent for a long moment, and his hand came to rest over Eames’ heart. He didn’t offer any platitudes, any empty words of condolence. It was exactly what Eames needed. All the shrink had asked was “how does that make you feel?,” and Robert had just kept saying “I’m so sorry.” Leave it to a former soldier to know how to handle the grief of a lost comrade-in-arms.

Eventually, Arthur spoke again. “I think I remember hearing about that. Merciless Mal, they called her. She made the off-world news. The first replicant serial killer.”

“That’s what the feeds labeled her,” Eames sighed. “She wasn’t psychotic. She just wanted revenge.”

Arthur crooked a curious brow at Eames.

“Not on us. No, Dom and I were just in her way. What the news didn’t explain was that she was one of those experimental units, implanted with real human memories instead of fabricated ones.”

“Wait, you lost me there. Replicants have _memories_? But, they’re…they’re androids.”

Eames made a face. Finally, the urge to smoke got the better of him, and he ventured out of bed to collect his cigarettes and the glass ashtray on the table by the window. Thankfully, his aches had receded some, but he still moved slowly. As he walked, he spoke.

“Nexus-6 replicants aren’t androids, not in the classic sense. There’s no metal bits, no armature with bio-engineered human skin on it, like those clunky Cyberdyne combat units.”

“Oh, I’m plenty familiar with those,” Arthur sighed. He rolled over in the bed for his cooled cup of tea, and brought it back with him.

“Right. And you said you’d seen Nexus-6 units in action. They were indistinguishable from humans, weren't they?”

“Well, except for that whole super-strength and super-speed thing, yeah.”

“Exactly. Nexus-6 were designed to be more human than human. Purely organic beings.”

“Like clones?”

“Kind of, but not really.” Eames lit the cigarette, and as he took his first drag he headed back towards the bed. “They’re not copied from a specific person. They’re engineered from scratch...it’s complicated.”

“Think I can’t handle complicated?” Arthur gave little snort.

“I think we’ll be here all fucking day if I try to explain the mechanics of replicant creation to you.” Eames looked around the room. “And this place doesn’t have a chalkboard and a chem lab, so I can’t give a proper lecture.”

“Do all blade runners study the subject as thoroughly as you?”

Eames slid back under the covers. “Far from it. Me, I find this stuff fascinating. If the world had gone a different way, I probably would’ve ended up building them instead of killing them.”

“Know your enemy,” Arthur said quietly, scooting over to make room for Eames.

“Certainly didn’t hurt. It’s how I knew we were dealing with something different when they told us about Mal. All Nexus-6 are incepted with fake memories—”

“Incepted?” Arthur asked, his mug halfway to his lips.

“It’s the terminology.” Eames shrugged. “A replicant’s activation date is called their incept date. Dunno why.”

“Hmmm.” Arthur’s mug continued towards his lips, but his gaze was suddenly far away. Eames was sure that Arthur was reaching the end of his patience with the lecture, until he turned his attention back to Eames. “All right. So Nexus-6 replicants have these artificial memories. How come?”

“It helps couch their emotions, make them more efficient tools. The memories are templates, though. A Pris unit on Mars will have the same memories as a Pris unit on Ganymede. But Mal…Mal had actual human memories.”

“Why would they do that?”

“The Tyrell Corporation wouldn’t say. Just that she was an experimental unit who’d escaped, and they wanted her apprehended, rather than retired. Fucking tied our hands. If we’d been able to use lethal force…” _Dom might still be alive._ Eames took a long, hard drag before stubbing out his cigarette.

“Isn’t that kind of an illegal request?” Arthur asked. “All replicants on Earth are killed upon detection.”

Eames fixed him with a look. “You think Tyrell gives a shit about the law? About as much as Proculus does.”

Arthur snorted in agreement.

Eames continued. “What we didn’t find out until later was that Mal’s memories were from a person who’d survived some serious trauma. So, when she realized what she was, what she could do with her super-powered body--”

“She went looking for payback.” Arthur finished for Eames. “That’s fucked up.”

“Tell me about it.” Eames pulled a second cigarette out of his pack, then stopped when he saw the sideways glance that Arthur was giving him. Eames felt the childish urge to ignore Arthur’s annoyance, especially since he’d only had one cigarette since he’d arrived in this room last night. But, no. He’d told Arthur yesterday that he’d cut back start tomorrow—and it was tomorrow. He slid the cigarette back in the pack and dropped it onto the table with a heavy sigh.

When he turned back, Arthur caught his chin and pulled him the rest of the way over for a long, languorous kiss. It was a very pleasant distraction, even if Eames knew it for what it was. Maybe quitting smoking wouldn’t be so bad if Arthur kept incentivizing him like this.

When Arthur pulled away, his eyes were bright, earnest. He reached down for Eames’ hand, threading their fingers together. Normally, a kiss like that would’ve sped Eames’ pulse. Instead, it had calmed him. He felt more relaxed, more centered, than he had in years. Before he knew what he was doing, he leaned down until his head was resting on Arthur’s shoulder. Arthur wrapped his arm around him, and Eames let himself melt against Arthur. They stayed like that for a long time, Eames listening to Arthur’s breathing, the quiet whir of the computer fans. Despite everything that had happened, everything Eames had lost and survived, in this moment, there was nowhere else he’d rather be.

“You falling asleep on me?” Arthur asked eventually.

“No. You?”

“I slept already.”

Eames snorted lightly. “God, I really did sleep in.”

“I don’t need much sleep anymore,” Arthur said.

“They teach you that in the Corps?”

“Yup. Four hours of sleep a night. Five on holidays.”

“God, that’s criminal.”

“It’s had its perks.”

“Oh?”

“Sleep training definitely came in useful in my new line of work.”

“Do I finally get to know what it is?” Eames pulled back enough to look at Arthur, gauge his reaction.

“In another couple of hours, yes. Ariadne’s scheduled to call, debrief us on the situation. I promise you’ll have your answers then.” Arthur’s brow furrowed, and he licked his lower lip, nervous. “Can…can we not talk about it until then?”

Eames’ eyes narrowed in surprise. “That bad? Have I been abducted into a mercenary squad? A political assassination plot? Alien invasion?”

Arthur chuckled. “No. I just want…” his words died off, and he looked up at the ceiling. “I just want to have this for a little longer.” He squeezed Eames’s shoulder. “Once she calls, I’m on. We’re on. And right now I’m just really, really liking this.”

“Liking being with me, or liking who you can be with me?” Eames asked.

“Both.” Arthur’s voice was low and soft, and it vibrated through Eames. “Like nothing I’ve ever liked before.”

“I know what you mean.” Eames nestled closer, and he relaxed once again. A few minutes later, though, their comfortable silence was broken by a loud growling coming from his stomach.

“Can part of this involve breakfast of some sort?” Eames asked.

Arthur laughed, kissed Eames’ forehead before sliding away. “That can definitely be arranged, as long as you don’t mind freeze-dried rations.”

“Sounds perfect.”

He wasn’t joking. Right now, even a stale protein bar would taste like a gourmet meal, and not just because he was starving. He watched Arthur, still completely naked as he rifled through a cabinet, and marveled at just how quickly everything had changed.

_Maybe, just maybe, your luck is finally turning around, Eames._

“Shrimp or chicken mushroom flavor?” Arthur asked.

“Oh, I don’t know. Surprise me.”

“You trust me?”

“Yeah, I trust you.”

**Author's Note:**

> I have this story plotted through to the end, and quite a bit written. However, as you've probably noticed, posting is taking a bit longer than expected. I may not have another chapter ready for a few weeks, due to some other deadlines arising in October. I WILL finish this series, though, and the best way to get new updates (since this is a series rather than chapter work) is to [subscribe to the series](http://archiveofourown.org/series/516802) as a whole. Thank you so much for your patience!


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